


a beautiful life that is filled with shrieks

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Cooking, DTR conversations no one wants to have, M/M, chas chandler not wanting to Talk ABout It either but wanting to Do Something About it, chas' love language is feeding the people he cares about and i think that's v sexy of him, does it work??? we'll see, established relationships - Freeform, explicit food porn, john constantine being In A Mood and not wanting to talk about it, real porn (but vague)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27526294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: I love you. I want us both to eat well.
Relationships: Chas Chandler/John Constantine
Comments: 9
Kudos: 40





	a beautiful life that is filled with shrieks

“John?”

“Mm?”

“What’s going on?”

John shrugs, bringing his cigarette back to his lips. His shoulder blades press against the stone floor — rough and cold against his skin, but the momentary discomfort quickly passes as the smoke fills his lungs.

Chas sighs. “Are you hurt?”

John shakes his head, and exhales.

“Are you drunk?”

 _Not yet_ , John almost says, but doubts it will help his case. Shakes his head again.

Chas takes a step closer, close enough to nudge at John’s ribs with the toe of his shoe. John glares up at him, and reaches over to half-heartedly slap at his ankle. 

Chas laughs and crouches down, close enough that John can glance over and meet his eyes. “Get up,” he says, all gentle authority. “Put your shirt on. Come help me make dinner.”

John frowns, turning his head away. Takes another drag. “Can’t I just suck you off after?”

“You were going to do that anyway,” Chas says, casually confident and, ultimately, correct. John looks at him again, and he smiles, reaching over to pat John's chest. His broad hand spans almost the entire width of John’s sternum. Beneath it, John’s heart jerks — swift and sharp, like a kick to the stomach, leaving him breathless and queasy — and he’s almost relieved when Chas pulls his hand away, for all that he misses the warmth. “C’mon,” Chas adds, and doesn’t even wait for John to agree before standing up and walking away.

John stares up at the ceiling. Brings the cigarette to his lips. Inhales. Exhales. 

Sits up, shakes his head, and goes to find his shirt.

*

“What’re you makin’, then?” John says, projecting as much disinterested swagger as he can manage — a useless effort, as it turns out, because Chas isn’t even looking at him.

“We,” Chas throws back, leaning over the massive cooler that’s made do as their refrigerator since they moved into the mill house. He turns around with more ingredients than John thinks are necessary for _any_ meal John’s willing to assist with, which he then deposits on the counter. “Shepherd’s pie,” Chas adds, as an afterthought, and John rolls his eyes.

“You need all _that_ for—” he watches as Chas retrieves a bottle of wine from one of the cabinets. “Bit of an early start, mate. ‘s not even five yet.”

“It’s for the filling,” Chas says, mild, knowing John too well to rise to the bait. “Quarter the potatoes for me.”

“ _Oui_ , chef,” John says, smarmily as he can, but rolls up his sleeves and heads for Chas’ block of knives.

“Wash them first,” Chas says, before he can so much as grab one.

“The knives?”

“The potatoes.” 

John raises his eyebrows. “You’ll be boiling them after.”

“ _You’ll_ be boiling them after, but you still need to wash them first.”

John sighs, dramatically, and throws up his hands. “ _Cut the potatoes, John_ ,” he mimics. “ _Wash them first, John_. Next you’ll be tellin’ me I have to peel them, too.”

Chas is leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, making no effort at all to hide his smile at John’s show of petulance. “You don’t have to peel them, John,” Chas says, magnanimous.

“Well, _ta_ for that, mate,” John grumbles, as he hefts the plastic bag of spuds over toward the sink. “All of ‘em?”

“All of them,” Chas says, and suddenly he’s behind John, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before he steps away. “Thanks,” he says, simply, and John’s heart clenches again.

*

John washes and cuts the potatoes and listens, as Chas moves behind him. Hears the flow of water, the scrap of metal on metal as Chas puts a large pot on the burner, the click of the dial and the burst of air as he lights the flame. Senses Chas, mirroring him, cutting his way through a variety of vegetables with speed and confidence John can only admire. 

John finishes with the potatoes, and ferries them across the kitchen. Dumps handfuls of uneven cubes into the hot water, risking the tips of his fingers and backs of his hands, until Chas throws him a look of patronizing concern. John smirks, but stops, dropping the rest in with significantly more care.

He pulls back when he’s done, watching Chas slice through the last of the interminable ingredients: celery, into tidy green moons that he scoops up into his broad hands and deposits gently into a small bowl. 

“What’re you looking at?” Chas says, flipping on the burner. 

_You_ , John could say, if he wanted to bring the roof down over his head. He pulls a cigarette out instead, leaning over to light it on the steady blue flame. Chas sighs, watching as John hoists himself up onto the counter.

“Use a...” he says, handing John the oft-chipped cup that’s been long-since requisitioned for this purpose. John gives a quick nod in thanks, setting the make-shift ashtray behind him.

Chas returns to his task: a quick dash of oil into the large skillet he’s placed over the flame.

“Bacon?” John says, innocently, as Chas adds it to the skillet. “What’ll, y’know,” he glances up and gestures at the ceiling, giving a quick hum. “Think?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Chas says, lowering the heat. He looks over at John, expectant. 

John grins. “Mum’s the word, mate,” he says, with a wink.

Sits in silence as Chas moves the sizzling bits through the hot oil till they’re brown and crisp, after which he deposits them on a paper towel lined plate. Next comes some sort of ground meat, only half of which Chas places in the pan.

“What’re you doin’ with the rest?”

“Using it for this,” Chas says, breaking the meat apart in the pan. “But you do half at a time, so it can sear properly.”

“Hm,” John says, and takes a slow, steadying drag.

Chas waits till the meat is barely pink, dusts it with a light sprinkle of flaky salt, and deposits it on the same plate as the bacon. Eases the rest into the still-warm pan, making it hiss. The smell of cooked meat — lamb, John realizes, recognition drawn entirely from years of Chas’ cooking — wafts through the room.

Chas stands almost at attention, focused entirely on the task at hand, seemingly unaware that John’s looking at him again: his dark hair, too long at the base again; his soft blue shirt, open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves. His bare forearms and wrists, his strong steady hands, skin unmarred except for the occasional scars from _before_. A knife knick here, a cigarette burn there, too much a part of Chas from too early on to have ever really healed. 

“How’re the potatoes doing?” Chas says, and John jumps. 

“I’ll check,” John says, hopping down from the counter with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and goes to retrieve a fork. 

Pokes through the bubbling water to the floating white cubes — the fork slides through easily, and John flips off the burner, and carries the pot to the sink. Drains it, and returns, placing it back on the stove. Chas gives him an approving nod — John feels the heat rise to his cheeks, and drops his head before there’s any chance Chas might notice.

“Here,” Chas says, and John looks up again, only to have a hinged, metallic apparatus — a potato ricer, he vaguely remembers Chas using it before — pressed into his hands. Having got his attention, Chas also hands him a large glass bowl. “Into there.”

John drops his cigarette — only half done, more’s the pity — into his ashcup and gets to work, pressing hot bits of potatoes through the small holes, letting the pulverized mass fall, steaming, into the glass bowl. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Chas remove the second half of the lamb, and add another drizzle of oil to the skillet. In goes the rest of the veg: carrots, celery, onions, some other sort of green. Another sprinkle of salt, and he gives it all a stir. 

John finishes the potatoes and puts down the bowl. Settles back on the counter, watching as Chas gives the softened, lightly browned mixture another stir. Leans over to light his cigarette again, flipping the other burner on, then off.

Sits back again, as Chas adds a little tomato paste and light dusting of flour. A minute or so later, and the wine is added, thick and red, poured directly from the bottle. 

“You done with that?” John says, reaching out, and Chas nods, slightly confused, but hands him the bottle: more than a quarter full, or less, after John takes a long swig.

“Oh, come on,” Chas scolds, and then laughs, apparently at the expression John’s made. “You don’t even like red wine,” he points out, as John grimaces around the taste.

It’s hardly John’s beverage of choice, true, but: “Takes the edge off,” he says with a shrug. 

“What edge?” Chas says, gentle.

John frowns, shaking his head. “Leave it, Chas,” he says, and hands the bottle back. 

Chas accepts it, and — apparently out of solidarity — takes a quick swig himself before putting the now-empty bottle down on the counter, then drops some particularly fragrant, freshly chopped herbs into the skillet. John has to laugh, and brings his cigarette back to his lips. 

“Pass me the potatoes?” Chas says, and John complies, reaching back to grab the bowl and handing it to him. Their fingers brush, and John — already warmed from the wine, from the heat of the stove, from the proximity to Chas — feels a bead of sweat drip down the back of his neck.

Chas doesn’t seem to notice: he adds cream and melted butter, then cracks two eggs open, separating the eggs from the whites, into another bowl. He whips the whites with some sour cream, bowl snug in one of his hands, the wire loops of the whisk moving so fast as to blur before John’s eyes. When he’s done, he adds the mixture to the potatoes, stirring it all together into a smooth, white mass.

“John?” Chas says, not looking at him.

“Yeah?”

Chas hesitates, reaching over to turn on the oven. “What’re you thinking about?” he says, finally, and glances over.

John cocks his head. _Come here,_ he gestures, with a jerk of his chin. Chas looks at him for a moment, then shakes his head.

“Give me a minute,” Chas says, focused on the food again: the wine’s reduced, leaving the contents of the skillet gravy-thick and red-tinged brown. Chas turns off the flame, and pours the filling into a sturdy red baking dish. The potatoes go next — thick white blobs, slowly covering every inch, till the filling disappears. The rest of the potatoes on top of that, and Chas shapes them into a pattern of swoops and swirls, intricate and unnecessary, like the raking of sand in a zen garden. 

Chas’ brow furrows, and John inhales, so deep it hurts his lungs. Exhales slow, as Chas opens the oven and slides in the dish. Chas closes the door, and the heat of the oven dissipates. John swallows, reaching back to stub out his cigarette. 

“Come here,” he says again, this time out loud, and Chas approaches. Once he’s just close enough to touch, John does: grabs at Chas’ shirt, and pulls him closer. Leans in to bridge the distance, and kisses him. 

Unabashedly desperate, chasing the taste of red wine on his tongue, smelling the rosemary and thyme as Chas reaches out and wraps a hand around the back of John’s neck. John’s lungs ache as Chas turns his head, nuzzling at John’s nose, and then kisses him again. His hand on John’s chest, almost burning hot, and his tongue in John’s mouth. John holds onto him, clutching at his arm and waist. 

Chas’ mouth drifts, pressing wet kisses down the side of John’s neck. “Please,” he hears himself murmur, and wonders — vaguely, distantly — what it is he’s even asking for. Chas’ beard prickles at his skin and John almost shivers. He tucks his fingers under the waistband of Chas’ jeans and pulls him in again. Spreads his legs, encourages Chas to crowd up against him. Chas complies, stepping between John’s thighs and leaning in to kiss him again.

Soft and swift, and then he pulls back, hand firm around the back of John’s neck. “I’m not fucking you in here,” Chas warns, but smiles anyway, leaning over to give John another quick kiss.

“Who said anythin’ ‘bout...” John murmurs, low and breathless. “Anythin’ about fuckin’?” he finishes, sighing as Chas drops his head again. 

“Just so you know,” Chas says, and licks a warm, wet stripe along John’s throat. 

“I know— _oh_ ,” John swallows a gasp, as he feels Chas’ hand give a quick, almost teasing stroke at John through his trousers. 

“Yes?” Chas asks, as if John’s hips hadn’t automatically jerked up, nearly sending him toppling off the counter.

“Yes,” John manages, and stifles a moan against Chas’ shoulder as Chas unbuckles his belt and eases open his trousers. 

Chas pulls back for a moment, and John whines, desperate to drop against Chas’ chest again — Chas chuckles, runs his tongue along the palm of his hand, and steps back into John’s space. 

Quick, steady strokes, and John sways into him, closing his eyes as the buzz of arousal throbs through him. Presses his forehead into Chas’ chest again. He smells wonderful: a home cooked meal, fresh soap, John’s own cigarettes. John stifles another moan into Chas’ shirt and Chas sighs, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head.

John’s hands twitch — he wants to feel Chas, wants to do more for him than sit there and get off. Slides his hands along Chas’ sides, down his stomach. Fumbles at the front of Chas’ trousers, pushing down the zipper. 

Chas is hot against his palm, already throbbing as John wraps a hand around him. The weight is familiar but no less thrilling for it, and John bites at his own lip, desperate to have Chas inside him. He wraps his leg around Chas’ waist instead, till they’re flush against each other, till they’re lined up and Chas can wrap his hand around them both. 

A few more strokes and they’re both leaking, sliding against each other, as Chas pants into John’s hair and John manages a few, shallow thrusts into Chas' hand.

Chas comes first, but not by much, and John follows breathlessly, eyes clamped shut, gasping into Chas’ shirt, clutching at Chas’ sides, feeling raw and strange and almost lost. 

But Chas’ body is solid and familiar, safe as houses, and Chas' hand is cupping the back of his head, stroking gently at his hair. John finds that he can breathe again after all. Feels sated and punch-drunk, almost high, like he’s floating and warm and strangely invincible. “Love you,” he hears himself say, and — feels Chas freeze. 

“Did you just—”

 _No,_ John wants to scream, would have to scream, just to be heard over the sudden roar of blood pulsing in his ears. Wants to pulls back, scramble away, disappear, before Chas can—

Chas steps back. 

Goes to run a nervous hand through his hair, but seems to realize what’s still on his palm, and stops himself. Turns around, zips up his trousers, and stumbles toward the sink, muttering something about needing to wash up. 

"Chas..." John tries, and sees the line of Chas' shoulders go taut.

"Just—" Chas says, letting out a loud, harsh breath. "Just give me a minute, I can't—" He flips the faucet on, and the spray of water against the sink is loud enough to drown out whatever else he was about to say.

John blinks, dropping back onto the ground. Tucks himself in, buckles his belt, and leaves.

*

“Well,” Chas says, from the door. “At least you’re not on the floor again.”

“Fuck off,” John says, turning away from him.

“John—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, turning around again. “ _Off_.”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about this either—”

“Then _don’t_ ,” John snaps. “Fuck _off_. Go finish your bloody shepherd’s pie. Forget it ever happened, mate, I’ll — “ he strangles the scream pushing its way through his throat. “I’ll get over it. Not like _you’re_ some great bloody one-of-a-kind _catch_.”

“Thanks for that,” Chas says, and then sighs. “Listen, I—”

“Please,” John says, quiet, and sucks in an unsteady breath. “Please. Just leave it, Chas.” Hopes earnest and plaintive will work where panic and rage has not. 

It doesn’t, of course: Chas walks over, and sits down on the edge of the bed next to him. “Is that what you want? To pretend it never happened?” 

John sits up, pulling himself as far from Chas’ body as he can. “It’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You’re not saying anything.”

Chas sighs. “I—” he reaches up, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. I'm trying. I just—” he drops his hand back to his lap. “You surprised me. I didn’t think — I didn’t know _you_ could. Feel that way, about men.”

John laughs, incredulous. “You’ve known I fuck blokes since—”

“Fucking a _bloke_ and..." Chas frowns, glancing away. "And being in love with one, are two different things.”

“Don’t say bloke,” John says, automatic, and then nods. “Right, well. Fair enough.”

“And you’re the first —” Chas shakes his head. “You’re the only one I—”

“Chas—”

“I don’t know,” he says, too quick to be anything but honest. “I don’t know, I didn’t — I’ve never thought about it. I always just...thought you wanted this,” he waves a hand between them. “Because it was easy, because I was here anyway and you didn’t have to put anyone else at risk, and I’m...tolerable.”

“You’re much more than bloody _tolerable_ ,” John says, surprised at his own vehemence. “But it’s never been — it’s never been _easy_ . You ‘n me, it’s — you worryin’ ‘bout me, takin’ care of me. None of that’s ever been _easy_.”

Chas looks up at him, surprised. “I meant for you.”

“Watchin’ you leave isn’t easy,” John points out, and drops his gaze to his own hands. Finds them twisting around each other. “Watchin’ you die isn’t—” John shuts his eyes, and exhales. 

“John,” Chas says, in that gentle, fond tone he gets sometimes, the one that John can never quite bring himself to trust. The one that makes him want to pop the doubtlessly strained balloon of Chas’ affection, just to see what’ll happen, because he’s a self-destructive wanker to the core. 

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.” John does, glancing up and into Chas’ dark, worried eyes. “Just tell me what you want, John.”

“I want you,” John says, simply, as the rest swirls through his head: _I want all of you. I want so bloody much of you there might not be anything left, after. I want you to want that much from me. I want you to_ have _that much of—_

“John?”

The pulsing of blood in his ears subsides, and he blinks. “Yeah?”

Chas reaches over, and wraps his hands around John’s. “Come on,” he says, giving John’s fingers a quick, tender squeeze. “Let’s go eat.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> recipe from [here](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/shepherds-pie) (i kno i kno, but Chas Chandler gives off both BA and NYT Cooking subscriber Vibes, SO), title/summary a paraphrase from [here](https://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/634536431787835392/fluttering-slips-our-beautiful-life-when-its) (the first few lines of which are very tumblr-quotable but the them of which is -- complex, about the tenuous balance between personal happiness and awareness of the world's ~problems), inspiration from [this post i made months ago](https://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/622316785245519872/in-theory-its-grossly-out-of-character-but-i) and, uhhhhh, recent events in other fandoms.


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